


The Effects of Neurotriptyline

by skylightowls



Category: BBC Sherlock, In The Flesh, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fanfic, Fanfiction, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, PDS sherlock, Zombie AU, Zombie Sherlock, in the flesh - Freeform, sherlock in the flesh au, war veteran John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylightowls/pseuds/skylightowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which most of the circumstances are the same, but they meet a few years earlier and Sherlock actually does die in the Reichenbach Fall. He returns as a rotter during The Rising, later to go back to 221B (and John) as a PDS sufferer. Or in which it's (kind of) Johnlock but with zombies. (In The Flesh AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work of fanfiction ever, feedback is much appreciated. I don't even really know where this is going so bear with me. If you guys like it, anyways.

Prologue  
Dec 12th, 12:05, 2009

The air is heavy and damp, but there is nothing but darkness. There are no memories, no personality, no life past the cold and the ever crushing darkness.  
There aren't any clever deductions either.  
But there is pain, and hunger. Oh the hunger, it's raw and it's ravaging, like something is missing – lost maybe – a deep hole in his chest. All he wants to do is fill it up, replace it with something not his.  


So he fights against the numbness, focusing on the only thing he does feel. He pounds against heavy wood, confined space and earth and dirt until there is wind and rain pushing against his fingertips. He pulls himself out of the ground, and the rain falls so hard it soaks all the way through his perfectly tailored black suit.  
But Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel it against his skin. He takes an unbalanced step forward.  
Words can't form in his mouth; his tongue is too swollen from two months of rot. What comes out is groaning. If someone were to listen carefully, not that anyone would, they’ld be able pull a name from the noises; John Watson.

The Rising started like a wave. At the beginning on the first day, there was news of people in a small, tiny town recalling how they saw a recently passed family member out on a walk in the woods. Soon, people all over Britain were getting glimpses of the dead wondering out of the corner of their eyes. It was like one large haunting, and some were grateful, others, petrified. A few tried to warn the masses of the upcoming death and horror they were sure was to come.  


They were right, because soon, days after, the attacks began.

 

Chapter 1

The office space is drab and dreary, brown carpet and grey walls sucking the life out of the potted plants that line a large, draped window. John sits in the similar brown chair, fiddling with his thumbs, jaw clenched. He has never been in a doctor’s office that's as painfully dull as this one, which is saying something.  


The plain colour of the room sets his nerves on edge, as if they aren't already. The doctor’s desk is littered with file after file, and John resists the tempting urge to riffle through the documents to find out why he was called down in the first place just so he can leave. The wait is driving him insane, the chair highly uncomfortable, hitting a nerve in his old bad leg. The thought brings him back five and a half years, suddenly and without restraint, and John clamps down hard on the memories. He has been working so hard to forget; to move on – damn it he is getting married - but one thing like that can set him back years.  


The door suddenly bursts open and in rushes the doctor, lab coat sitting just a bit too tightly around his shoulders. John shifts in the chair.  


"So," the man - Dr. Shepard, according to the name tag - begins as he sits down in his much more comfortable chair. "You're a doctor yourself, Mr. Watson?"  


John nods, not bothering to correct the other man. He wasn't really a doctor the last few years, since the Rising, as much as he tried. As many as the lives he lost and destroyed.  


And war is war.  


"So you are aware of all of the progress we've made over these couple months, yes?"  


"Of course." John says, fist clenching, and his voice cracks just a bit from disuse, he coughs. He'd been sitting here for a while. "I'm sorry, but just what did you call me down here for?"  


"Assimilation of the partially disease syndrome sufferers is nearing quite quickly, Mr. Watson, we are just preparing the general public."  


"You could do that with commercials or posters, thank you very much, not personal visits. I am very busy myself with planning a wedding and-" John begins to rise from his seat, but Dr. Sheppard stops him.  


"Mr. Watson, please wait. We were looking over the list of PDS sufferers and researching the family of each and you are listed as the only responsible party of one of our top cases."  


The large man ruffles through some of the folders and holds one up, a single name printed in flowing cursive across the cover.  


John can't see the word properly and silently curses. Mary’s right - he needs glasses. John pauses, and inside his head flies the name of everyone he's ever known and died. Fear slowly grips his throat, clawing like icicles, as he realizes the only person it could possibly be and he sinks slowly back into the chair, eyes staring unfocused at the front of the desk. He traces the pattern of the wood with his gaze as he compartmentalizes. He's been getting better at that too.  


"I am taking it you know who it is?" The doctor asks, putting on reading glasses and opens the file, skimming through it.  


John feels himself slowly nod.  


"Sherlock Holmes is one of our most responsive cases." The doctor says with what is akin to pride. "But he is literally scraping the backs of everyone to return home as soon as possible and someone high up in the government pulled enough strings that..."  


John doesn't hear a word the doctor says as soon as that name leaves his mouth. Memories of late nights, wild chases and take out come flooding back like a hurricane, and this time John can't stop them. He remembers the tall man, grey eyes piercing, long coat flying behind him like a cape, deductions and cases and criminals flying past as if he was a hawk in flight and the rest of the world a tiny pheasant. John remembers the first case, the thrill of the chase and the blood pumping through his veins, just the two of them against the rest if the world. He remembers the shot to save a life from the game and the pink lady's phone.  


But then he remembers the blood seeping from Sherlock's skull, red on the pavement. He remembers the vacant eyes and lost pulse, never to be found again.  
John feels like a small picture compared to all the paintings of memories when he speaks again, voice harsh. "I didn't realize he’d - ehmm - come back."  


The doctor looks dully – stupidly – sympathetic as he nods his understanding. Damn him, he probably heard like everyone else in the dumb city when the suicide happened three and a half years ago.  


"Where is he?" John can't stop himself from asking. His face falls.  


"In our northern treatment center, but he is returning to London in two days."  


John wants to yell. He wants to scream. He wants to run all the way to 221B and breathe in the scent, remind himself of all the things he never would have allowed himself to remember if /this/ didn't happen.  


Yet John doesn't move a muscle, because he doesn’t live in 221B anymore. What he does do, what he knows how to do, what he has truly learned over the last few years, is prepare.  


Two days. According to Dr. Sheppard, a version of Sherlock is coming back to London in two days. Back to a London that is ravaged with death, broken buildings and scarred veterans. Back to a city and to people who don't completely accept what he technically – holy shite – is now.  


And that’s even more of a freak. Death in a long dark coat.  


As much as he has questions for the bastard - like why the bloody hell did you jump, Sherlock? Or what happened to Moriarty? Even, why the fuck did you leave me? - John Watson isn't ready. He won't ever be ready.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has always been Sherlock Holmes, but no he is no longer anything but a dead, cold, moving and walking around corpse.

Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes, waking from a dreamless sleep, and sits, pushing away grey sheets. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet resting against concrete floor.

It's not even cold, even though it should be. Sherlock barely remembers what it's like to be cold. Now all he feels is numb.

The only place he can even slightly feel is in his fingertips, and he's not even sure if it's real or if he's just imagining it.

Hallucinating something, like a sensation, wouldn't be the first time in his life.

There's a knock at the door to his single bedded room. Sherlock tells whoever it is to wait a moment and grabs the box of contract lenses from the side table.

He opens one up and puts them in with delicate and practiced fingers.

Sherlock knows it's really the eyes that unnerve some people, so it's what he covers up first. He doesn’t even know why he does it, and it makes him wonder if it’s something he would have done before. Probably not, but the memories don’t come back completely.

"Come in."

A tall boy with strawberry blond hair walks in, skin unnaturally orange tinted, dark brown eyes blinking a bit too much. Sherlock knows another PDS sufferer (what an awful name) when he sees one. They let them roam around more here than the other... place. Sherlock shivers – an involuntary motion he doesn’t even notice – when he thinks about it.

"Um, hi." The boy begins. "Dr. Sheppard told me it'd be good if I made some friends because my last roommate went rabid, and you know the whole PDS support group, and I was wondering-"

"You've been rejected twelve times." Sherlock thinks out load. The boy isn't really meant to hear it, but now it's out there, and so what if it makes him even more distrustful in the eyes of the others.

"Sorry what?"

"Why are you still trying?" Sherlock asks.

"I, uh." The boy looks down and kicks at nothing with his feet. His shoes aren't even his, same with the rest of his clothing. "I guess because it’s what Dr. Sheppard said..."

"Well that's pointless. You are leaving today and I to London in two days. Can't befriend someone when they’re not around."

"Oh, I'm sorry... I'll leave then." The boy turns.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asks before he stops himself. That’s another thing that feels sort of new, like he no longer has... whatever that was. The boy freezes and looks back.

"It’s Kieren." His voice is one of uncertainty.

"If you want to make a friend, Kieren, there's a girl four doors down to the left who needs one herself."

The boy scrunches his eyes, pinching his noise as if to relieve a headache, one probably not even existent. "How do you know what?”

"I don’t know, I observe." Sherlock replies. The boy stares for a moment before he lets out a short nod and a quiet thanks before leaving, closing the wooden door behind him.

They weren't always at this facility. The government originally had them at a large factory, with white walls and orderly lines. But as the PDS began to get better, they brought them in hordes to hospitals and empty wards so it wouldn't look like a laboratory to the family of the ‘diseased’. But that was only for the people coming to pick them up.

Sherlock logically hates both places.

No one is coming for him. He’s going to be sent away, sent back to London. His circumstances are different, considering his oaf of a brother. It's a helicopter ride away from 221B, one of the many doctors told him. They brought him here to calm his nerves, they said. Before he really goes back.

It isn't the nerves that needed calming. Sherlock wants his nerves to be crazy and erratic. That would mean he'd be able to feel again.  
And he’s seen the news. The Living are outraged because of the dead. Sherlock’s not surprised though. England is not one of the nicest countries in all of Europe.

There's a light tap on the door again, and Sherlock is pulled out of his revere to realize he hasn't moved an inch from the bed. He stands to answer the door.

It's a nurse this time, one of the living. She's the youngest Sherlock has seen yet and appears nervous. The other nurses probably told her of Sherlock's 'attitude'. He really can’t stand to be around people with pulses anymore than what he assumes was before. He remembers very little, and frustration with other humans is one of the few.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks, making his voice hard and irritated. It’s not like he hasn’t deduced the answer, that’s a skill he still has, but common courtesy is all the rage.  
"I um, I have to, there's uh." The nurse coughs. "They wanted me to tell you that all of your immediate relatives and, um, others have been informed of your, uh, condition."

"Then tell your sister to stop screwing your boyfriend while you’re at it, you incompetent daft wit." Sherlock snaps and slams the door shut. He’s testing the extent of he efforts. As soon as it’s closed, the knocking re-ensues, and he rolls his eyes.

"S-sorry sir." The nurse says as Sherlock opens the door again. "I-I need to give you your shot as well."

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically before turning around. "I'm going to complain to the head of directors here and ask them to stop sending inexperienced blubbering monkeys to do the dirty work."

The nurse has to stand on her toes to reach Sherlock's neck, and she pulls down Sherlock's white smock rather roughly, which surprises him. The injection stings momentarily before it burns, but as soon as it is over the nurse pulls back quickly, closing and locking the door behind her. They must have told her about his fits as well. Most of the PDS have them, but his are exceptionally worse.

Sherlock falls to his knees, and flashes of people and screaming and blood crosses his vision before one image sticks out like a sore thumb.

*****

The wind is howling, tearing at his skin and his clothes, pushing and pulling at all sides. He doesn’t know where he is, or how he got there. The world in front of him is foggy and distorted. There’s a moving shape somewhere off in the distance, and it smells... alive. He focuses as much as he can on the warm, red form, and gingerly moves towards it with a limp.

He hears short yells, unable to discern what they mean, Sherlock becomes frustrated, and he grunts noises right back, moving faster forwards.

Something hits his left side, throwing him back with an echoing bang. It only stuns Sherlock momentarily, he feels no pain, and his stride slows but quickly speeds up again. The screaming becomes louder.

Soon the shape forms into a more solid form, and it’s the face of a pretty girl, and the scent of lilac fills Sherlock’s limited senses. The girl’s light brown hair is tangles and messy, flowing all around her in a slow motion and her features are twisted up in fear, mouth locked in a desperate scream. There’s something cold and metal in her hands.

Sherlock however sees none of this, his attention focused on her warmth, the red, and his own empty feeling. As her grabs on to the girl, she fighter back, kicking and screaming, but nothing can withstand against dead weight. His head goes down towards her neck, mouth open, and then there is nothing but blood.

*****

Sherlock is gasping for air he cannot breathe as the images finally fade. He’s on his knees, clutching on to the grey fabric of his bed. He rests his head against what he assumes is rough fabric, and closes his eyes.

Sherlock sits there for as long as he can, trying to escape from the flashes of memories. And so, aching thoughts of the one person -who would probably hate him now - that normally clears his roaring head flourishes in gold through his mind. It's all he can do to stop from screaming.

Sherlock has always been Sherlock Holmes; detective, genius, extraordinaire. But now he is no longer anything but a dead host of the man he once was. He can feel it in his bones, in his flesh. He does not want to go back. But he must, and if he has to put on a face to do so, he will.

It's all for John, anyways.

Sherlock leans back from the bed, stands up, and awkwardly walks to the dark oak dresser that sits on the other side of the wall. Thin fingers reach out and grasp a small contain of makeup and spins of the top. He stares into his reflection, shocking white eyes already hidden from view behind plain grey contacts. Sherlock applies mouse to a sponge and then to his pale skin.  
He has always been good at taking on face for a case, if he remembers correctly. This will be a roll for a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reads, the kudos and the comments :)  
> Sorry it's taken so long for me to update, but its Christmas season and it's stressful. Anyways. Thanks again for reading. Hope you'll stay awhile.


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